Our Old Room
by JustBFree
Summary: After catching a glimpse of Irene Adler in the crowd, Sherlock reflects on their first meeting at the Grand in London. One-shot.


All it took was a glimpse of her through the crowd of heated, drunken revelers. A gem mingling in the filth of the London dregs, but no delicate, blushing thing was Ms. Irene Adler. For a split second, his heart leapt in concern for her safety, but he was just as quickly reminded of what the woman was capable of.

All it took from her was a wink and a smile. She'd placed a bet on him, showing a measure of her confidence in his physical prowess. Appealing to his male pride, then. She was after something. It would be a short matter of time to discover what had brought her back to his city. Then perhaps he might-

_This mustn't register on an emotional level…_

His fingertips thrummed the strings of his violin, random notes trilling into the air without rhyme or reason. No measure, no scales. Sharp, flat, high, low. His mind was not entirely focused on music. He was, in fact, unnerved by the sighting of Irene at the fight hall. He had not expected to see her again. Not after waking alone that miserable morning at the Grand.

He'd been tracking the movements of a thief for weeks. Several jewels had gone missing from the houses of both corrupt politicians and notorious aristocrats, articles worth their original owners' weight in gold. Sherlock had ruled out resentful help and insurance schemes. Irene might have escaped him once again, had it not been for a stroke of chance that he'd learned of her connection to all the men involved in the case- an embroidered handkerchief had been left in place of the last gem, a cerulean sapphire the size of a hen's egg.

That had been the driving force between what had lead the case from a simple instance of theft to an event that had unmistakablely changed things. For him, at least. It had been made painfully clear to him that Irene saw the world as a game. She would've escaped. She would've fled London with the jewels and the satisfaction of knowing that she had outwitted him again. Even now, it gutted him to know that he'd only caught her because she'd purposefully left a clue as to her identity and whereabouts. Had it not been for the handkerchief, perfumed with her signature scent, Holmes might still be turning his wheels over who had taken the gems.

He'd found her at the Grand hotel, waiting for him in some jade wrapper from the Orient. She'd been amused and triumphant. The spark in her eye had been a thing of wonder. He hadn't been in such close quarters with her before- indeed, they had never met face-to-face. It was obvious to him now why so many had fallen at her feet.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, detective?"

Holmes had closed the door behind him, locking them together in the room. Distantly, he'd known it would come to this. Her expression proved she had no true interest in the jewels- it had all been a game to get his attention, to get him alone. "You know why I'm here, Ms. Adler."

She'd moved off the chaise lounge, all grace and cleverness. He'd admired her since she'd first beat him at his own game, but with the realization that she was indeed the thief he'd been tracking came the realization that he wanted to conquer _the_ woman and avenge his wounded pride. Male pride had been aroused and would not be satisfied until the woman conceded her defeat.

She'd raised a brow at him, her face eternally amused. "Do I now?"

_Insufferable woman!_ "The jewel thefts that have gone through London. I know you're behind the crimes."

"You don't really expect me to tell you that?"

He'd moved toward her. Frustrated. Angry. In awe. "You'll tell me, or you'll tell the police."

She'd smiled at him then, and in one instant two separate but equally profound events occurred. First, Irene Adler revealed a Derringer pistol from behind her back and pointed the barrel directly at him. Second, a rarely-indulged heat blossomed in Holmes's chest, for Irene Adler was at once the most dangerous, vibrant woman he'd ever known. But she was a thief, not a killer.

"You're not going to shoot me," he'd said calmly.

Her eyes widened at his cool reaction to the firearm. He didn't take her seriously. That simply would not do. She aimed the pistol at his foot. "Oh, no?"

**_Crack!_**

Sherlock had moved quickly, but the bullet still grazed the side of his shoe. That shoe was kept in an old hotbox in his closet; he hadn't the heart to throw it out. Irene cocked the pistol again, but Sherlock proved too fast; he came at her, grabbed the gun with one hand and held onto her with the other, wrapped his arm around her waist and pinning her free hand. They had never been in closer space, and the heat in his chest bloomed ever hotter now that he held her. Her spirit, wicked as it was, was thrilling to him. Never before had he known a more intriguing woman.

"I'm taking you to Lestrade." He'd told her. A rare huskiness had touched his voice, it had even surprised him.

But it was an empty threat. Holmes had no intention of allowing her remarkable mind to lay fallow in prison. He wanted her to submit to _him_, not the law.

Irene had twisted against him, forcing a struggle. Holmes pried the pistol from her grasp and let it fall to the floor. She pushed against him, he pushed back, a rough scuffle that somehow became more than a fight for control of a gun. They fought out of frustration; the knowledge of their wits being too evenly matched had lead to a need for physical domination. That a woman had initiated this confrontation was a rare and wonderful thing: Irene Adler was a proper lady and a savage. Was there ever a more tempting mix to walk the earth?

Holmes pulled at her gown, tearing the garment from her shoulder and very nearly exposing her breast. Irene laughed. "Lestrade? He wouldn't know what to do with me."

He'd been stunned by her immodesty, which she took advantage of. She shoved away from him, but Holmes grabbed her before she could escape. The heat was in her now, he could sense it. Thrilling. He threw her backward onto the bed.

The woman bounced back on the mattress and smiled at him, full and bright. "You wouldn't hit a woman, would you?"

He shook his head and advanced on her. "I'm a firm believer in equality." His voice had lowered to a growl. He was furious with wanting, the need to tear this woman apart, to tame her ways and best her at this game she'd started.

Irene knew he wouldn't hit her; Holmes could be many things, but he was not the sort to beat a woman bloody. She rolled to the side, off the bed and regained her footing. "Tell me, detective. I just have to know. How did you find me?"

"Don't play games. You left a clue. You wanted me to find you."

"Oh? You mean you wouldn't have found me without that kerchief I left. I admit, I was growing impatient with you. Maybe there's something to your theory."

He stood his ground before her. The heat was between them, growing stronger with every passing moment. That angry attraction which had been simmering so long was finally rising to the surface. Irene was no flighty girl. She was a woman, _the woman_, and she knew the look in his eyes. All lustful fire.

_You're thought of as a genius, Sherlock Holmes, but at the end of the day you are just a man._

His hands reached forward to rest over her shoulders, one of them exposed. She could feel the heat of his skin, the restrained tension of his long fingers. "What's it to be, Irene?"

She tried to move past him, but Sherlock blocked her path. He advanced again, backing her against the foot of the bed. "You seem to want me here, Mr. Holmes."

"You got the better of me before. It won't happen again."

"It could be said that I've already bested you in luring you to my suite. The first time, it was a contest of cleverness. I want something different this time. The question is, what do you want? Do you want this-" She slapped him across the face- so hard he felt his teeth rattle. He was sure that her hand would leave a red imprint on his cheek. "Or this?" Her lips crashed against his. Her mouth was moist and hot, tasting faintly of mint. Her hands smoothed over his chest and her fingers speared into his hair.

Irene pulled back, seeking his answer. A night of passion or a battle of wits; either would suit her.

Sherlock smiled at her for the first time, just a slight lift of the lips. Where had this woman come from?

"Ask me again."

Another slap, lighter than the first. Another kiss, infinitely more passionate. They were ready to devour each other.

Holmes's hands had twined over her body, seeking first the dip of her waist, then the softness of her breasts. _Oh, yes._

"I confess, I'm not sure which one's more dangerous."

Irene laughed and Sherlock leaned forward, claiming her lips. He had to take back control here; for all his intense reasoning, Sherlock Holmes was a man and man lived for only one thing: to dominate. Sherlock grasped her bottom and lifted her. The woman complied, wrapping her legs about his waist. He fell forward onto the bed with the writhing woman beneath him. She was pinned by his weight.

A shifting of bodies, a tearing of fabric. Jade silk and crisp tweed met each other on the floor beside the bed as Sherlock moved atop Irene, driving her pale body further and deeper against the mattress. His strength met hers, their hunger fueled each other. All reason was gone. There was no mystery here. They were exposed.

It happened then. Irene sank her teeth into the slope of his shoulder as he grunted in release, a bright moment of pleasure that left his mind mercifully blank. Her body throbbed around his where they were joined, a pulse that matched his own.

They lay for several moments in silence, marveling at what had just happened. Irene moved beneath him. She kissed his neck. "I knew I should have come back to London sooner."

"I'm sure your exploits in Europe kept you busy enough."

She shook her head. "You flatter me."

"Oh? I think the Tsar's missing diamond flatters you more. As does the gold necklace of the Aga Khan. Not to mention that they'll probably shoot you on sight for what you did in Belgium." Holmes listed her connections easily, as if he'd been studying her dossier at length. Then again...

"You forgot the garnet dragon from Indo-China." Irene laughed. "And to think, I took special pains to make sure my name was never in the papers."

Holmes kissed her mouth, pleased that she remained receptive. "It didn't have to be, your signature was all over the crimes."

"You're one to talk. Your work for the queen's personal guard alone was-"

"That was a Top Secret mission."

"Was it? I lost track."

"No you didn't. Why did you take the jewels?"

Her eyes lost a touch of their earlier brightness. "Back to business already?" Irene rolled over, and Holmes obliged so that she could slide atop him. She leaned forward and rested her hands on his chest. "Are you sure that you'd rather talk?"

His hands rested on either side of her, cupping her hips. "Hmm. Again, I'm not sure which is the more dangerous."

"Then let's find out together."

The morning had brought him a profound sense of loneliness and a velvet pouch of recovered gems.

* * *

A more wild night with a woman, Holmes could not recall and in his own way he hoped that night with Irene would not be surpassed with another. He was not a man inclined to consider his age and the conventions of settling into marriage- he was aware enough of his own troubles and would not wish to..._inflict_ himself on a wife who would love him but who would always fall to second place behind the mysteries that captivated him.

It wouldn't be fair to treat a woman in such a way, and Holmes was sure that he would grow bored with such a passive female.

No.

The only woman that so absorbed him, the only woman to truly earn more than his respect, but who earned his admiration, was that wily minx Irene Adler. She who had bested him in the past and left him abandoned in the silken wreckage of a bed at the Grand, that brunette tempest had come back. It wasn't that she had returned to London; she had returned to _him_. Why? Holmes did not know why, but he would discover her reason soon enough.

_The game is afoot. Where Irene Adler is concerned, there is always a game._

He strummed the violin again, all random notes. The flies trapped in the glass began a pattern of counter-clockwise, concentric circles. Order from chaos.

If only Irene Adler was as simple to control.


End file.
